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by nutm3g
Summary: It's hard for Dante to stay away from what wounds him the most.


Set in the reboot timeline! Based off of the idea that reboot Vergil is this very cold/unfeeling and manipulative character with a charismatic/"good guy" persona, whereas Dante is too forgiving for his own well being. Also based off of the idea that Dante feels very bitter towards his own existence.

* * *

You hate going for walks.

But these walks, they're what help clear your head of the awful demons that inhabit it.

Mostly, they're to get away from _him_.

"No getting away from any of that shit," you say at the beginning of every walk.

And it's true.

You tell yourself you'll try a new path everyday, and everyday your body retraces its steps from the previous walk. Why? That's beyond you. Blame it on the familiarity of the usual route, even if it does hold awful temptation.

There's a certain pull to the ocean each time you come to it, long tugs with each lap of wave until you're stuck there, hands pressed to the aging, cold metal of the guardrails. Sometimes you hear your name faintly whispered alongside rolls of salt water, smell the metal of your own blood on the cool breeze.

When you pass the rows of cars lined up at the red glare of the stoplight, you can't help the ideas that come forth. Gruesome thoughts of situating yourself between whichever vehicles aren't impatiently pressed bumper to bumper, and of the pressure messily squeezing you in half. You wonder if they'd trash the car afterwards or keep it as a trophy for having killed a monster.

When you weave through strangers passing you by, head into the more populated streets, there comes the chilling sensation of paranoia. They know what you are, of what you're capable of, where you came from and where you'll go. (Not even you know where you'll end up.)

You can get away from the demons, sure. It's easy. All you have to do is walk away and your mind will wander elsewhere. But him? It's like the more distance put between the two of you, the closer he becomes.

Everywhere you turn, he's there. Even through the thickest of crowds, you find him through peeks of white amongst the heads of various shades of blonds and browns, the glances of eyes all too similar to yours.

He never does approach you, probably because he isn't really there. Rather, he lingers like an entity in the back of your mind, one with an awful habit of making himself present at the worst times.

A minivan screeches to a stop at your side as you impatiently, anxiously cross the street to get away from these thoughts of him, blatantly ignoring the angry honks and the slurry of curses that mix in with them.

"You know better than that, Dante," he murmurs, ever calm, scolding, a phantom voice that rings in your head.

"You don't know shit," you growl in response through grit teeth, and it hits immediately after how strange you must look mumbling to yourself like that. But he hears it. You know he can.

It takes a few minutes for the tension in your chest to ease up and, mentally worn, you pause to stand where your trailer once stood. Your home, ruined by some damned devil. The destruction of your only residence didn't seem so bad, though, not after being reunited with your brother. The other half you never knew you wanted.

You didn't know any better then, because it's only now you understand how little you want him in your life, or how little you want this life in general. Luxuries aside, he's no good for you. He takes, takes, takes 'til you're naught but a shell and in return he gives you material things you could get on your own. You want love, hate, any emotion he's never once shown to you.

Vergil is too much like your father, and you… poor Dante, you're too much like your good-hearted mother.

* * *

"Shot of Jack," you say to the same bartender from the same seat at the same bar every night, and tonight is no different.

It's a cycle, unending in the way it moves forward continuously, and at some point you begin to wonder if you're an alcoholic. A few seconds later your drink is set in front of you, and you stop caring.

One, two, three, four shots are never enough.

Five start to go to your head, but it's a slow journey of booze through thick blood.

Six have you smiling at last, grinning like a fool to the babes and the beauties.

Seven, eight, nine and you're stumbling your way out, urged on by a waitress who wouldn't stand for another of your drunken pick-up lines.

It's dangerous to walk these streets alone at night. You're never really alone, though, are you?

He follows your every movement, breathes whispers and words and caution whenever you get too close to danger.

He plays the part of an angel looking out for you to hide the devil in him that lures you into the greatest danger of all.

You hear him, quiet and clear through the usual disturbances of the evening, guiding you through the streets like some built-in navigation system. Or maybe he's no longer there, and you're just subconsciously heading to where you want to be.

Somehow that place is always at his doorstep, welcomed into his arms as if he were truly happy or relieved to see you.

You're too drunk to care.

Too drunk to mind the hands that perch at your waist to keep you upright as he leads you away from the front door to the room he'd set up for you not long ago.

Too drunk to pay attention to the way his touch wanders further and further down to slide beneath the fabric of your shirt, to cool fingertips gliding up your skin as digits curl around your hip possessively.

It isn't as though you're completely oblivious, because some part of you always recognizes his touch.

He makes to leave once you're safe in your room and you protest through some slurred objection, arms circling his torso to keep him still. Keep him close.

You bury your face to the soft wool covering his shoulder, inhale deeply the scent that's always been able to calm your monsters before hot lips find the cold skin of his neck; where they press clumsy, affectionate kisses all over. In reply he chuckles, a deep and warm noise that rumbles in his throat in contrast to his chilling demeanor, and suddenly you're overwhelmed with this sense of belonging.

His laughter is shadowed by the soft click of the door shutting, the gentle pressure of his arms tightening around you.

You know you'll wake up tomorrow - morning, noon, or evening - filled with immense regret and a bitter self-loathing over what will take place tonight, just like you always do.

Regardless, you'll go for another walk tomorrow evening in hopes that you'll end up somewhere new, in the embrace of someone different.

But no matter how thick the determination, you will always end up in the hell you try so hard to stay away from… and that hell is home.


End file.
